


Zugzwang

by AngelycDevil



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: AU - Everyone lives, Aimeric Lives, Auguste Lives, Canon Divergent, Damen is a puppy, Depression, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, F/M, Heavy Plot, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mentions of Rape, Multi, PTSD, Panic Attacks, Sibling Bonding, Slavery, eventual poly - Freeform, fluffy goodness, mentions of abuse, more tags will be added with updates, nik deserves better (and he'll get it), overprotective older siblings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-29
Updated: 2017-04-23
Packaged: 2018-07-19 01:16:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7338667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AngelycDevil/pseuds/AngelycDevil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Damianos has risen from the ashes and walks on Akelion land once more beside the Crown Prince of Vere. As Marlas prepares  for the rule of two kings, unrest brews amongst its warriors and a secret slithers through the camp—a viper in the dark, threatening to strike at any moment. Amidst this quandary requiring careful deliberation and vigilant insight, Damianos was not the only one hiding something that could decimate the board.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**_waiting move_ ** _(verb) - a_ _passive move which carries no threat in and of itself but places the opponent in disadvantaged position._

* * *

Months in this land does not allow for familiarity at how efficiently Akelios prepares for a celebration. Word arrived in the middle of the night that Nikandros is returning back to Marlas with Makedon in the evening and there is to be a ceremony of some sort the next day. Gustav only knew this because of his presence at the stables last night when the men rode in.  By sunrise next morning, the entire fort is bustling with energy. Kolnas, the Keeper of slaves, and Hanston, the servant’s master, are nowhere to be found. He can stop one of the hurried servants or find Isander—who has warmed up to him over the months—to ask for an answer, but Gustav finds himself wandering toward Patroclus’ quarters. Being one of Nikandros’ favorite slaves, he’s most likely resting without a task, but he will have an explanation for all this commotion.  

Patroclus is one of the earliest friends he made when he arrived to the fort shackled and drugged. He still remembers that night clearly in his mind, the night he was ripped away from his cold, dark prison and thrown into the belly of a ship for three nights. The only words spoken before he was let out was “do as they say” in broken Veretian. The accent similar yet different from the Akelion, same at the ones he’d picked up on in this prison. His mind muddled, he allowed himself to be led into the walls of the fort that killed him and knelt in front of the man who took Delfeur from his kingdom. He did not dare to move a muscle when the Kyros touched him, a brush of a hand, before muttering in approval. He remembers the rage that surged within him only to be trampled by the knowledge of helplessness. He remembers stumbling into the empty room they provided, looking for a weapon.

_Quickly, quickly, before he comes…_

But Nikandros never came. In fact, he didn’t see Nikandros for the next three weeks. The first few days, he was left alone save for the guards posted outside at every moment. As much as he wanted to escape, he was weak. He wouldn’t stood a chance and who knew what traditional Akelion punishments were? Kolnas came to him on the fourth morning, guards by his side, and stated his requirements and expectations in a not unkind voice, concluding with ‘you should be honored to be gifted to Nikandros of Delpha from the South. He is a good master. You will be happy serving him.’

_The South. Ios. **Akelios**. _

_Theomedes and his son, Damianos._

He remembers the confusion that plagued him that day as he followed Kolnas around the fort, trying to grasp the meaning of this. In the mountains, he’d been so sure of the innocence of Akelios in his fate. Then he was transferred to a prison where they spoke only Akelion then was transferred to a fort controlled by an Akelion…who apparently didn’t ask for him. Nikandros may be innocent in the fate that was thrust upon him, but the Crown isn’t.

Did the King work alone? Did his heir play a part in this treachery as well? Did Theomedes sign the peace treaty only to gain advantage by kidnapping him? Was running a sword through his chest not enough? Was the family working together or are the sons innocent? The only thing that had been clear at the end of the fourth day was the fact that this plot of his enslavement was merely a single thread in this conspiracy woven around them all.

So he stayed. For where he was put is exactly where he’d be the safest and the most underestimated.

He learned the mannerisms of an Akelion slave without resistance, much to Kolnas’ approval. Within a fortnight, he knew how to move without being seen, how to make himself look small and innocent, how to pay attention to the miniscule gestures of his master and serve him properly during meals.

That’s when he met Patroclus. Or rather Patroclus had found him sifting through the library. Kolnas never openly forbade him from entering and being surrounded by books, touching the spines, flipping through their pages reminded him of the nights he spent with his little brother, listening to tales of heroisms and history as they basked under the moonlight. Now, sitting beside the window under the moon, thumbing through pages of Akelion, he found himself feeling warmth for the first time in years. Patroclus joined him one night and perhaps noticed how his finger followed the same row time after time. Or perhaps it was obvious how he couldn’t follow every Akelion word said to him, just the broad sweep of them. No matter the reason, Patroclus extended his help. It was kind offer. A patience one. A generous one. He wishes now that he hadn’t reacted as proudly as he did. His trips to the library did not begin as an opportunity for education, yes, but once he realized the potential of Patroclus’ proposition, he could not decline.

Since then, they poured over literature during every available minute. He knew enough Akelion to get by, but learning the intricacies of the language revealed a new world. It isn’t commonplace for a slave to able to read or write, but Patroclus is exceptional. He learned this quickly.

Gustav knocks thrice rapidly before entering, unsurprised to find Patroclus by the window, his head halfway into another book.

“Please tell me you’ve left this room since waking up,” he teases, plucking the pages out of Patroclus’ hands, dancing away when he is chased. He knows how Patroclus behaves when interrupted, but he has not found himself in a patient mood this morning.

“What are you going to do if I haven’t? Bend me over your knee?” the dark-haired man replies, tauntingly.

Gustav snorts as he places the book on the highest closet in the room where Patroclus cannot reach, “Nikandros will kill me if I touch his little pet. Do you want me to die, my dear friend?”

Patroclus grumbles behind me. “If you don’t return my entertainment, I just might.”

“Allow me your attention for a few moments and I promise to return your precious book to you.”

Patroclus growls lightly, staring balefully at the top of the closet. “Fine. What do you want?”

“You have noticed the sudden…livelihood of this fort, yes?”

“You could’ve just asked.”

Gustav grins. “This is more fun.”

“You’re an awful friend.”

“Oh, _tell_ _me_. I heard Nikandros is returning.”

Patroclus smirks, his eyes sparkling. “For someone who denies interest, you sure talk about him a lot.” When Gustav glares in return because he isn’t interested in Nikandros, _he can’t be,_ he continues. “They have an announcement to celebrate the union between the Crown Prince of Vere and King of Akelios.”

“K-Kastor?” Gustav chokes out.

Patroclus scoffs. “Not the bastard, _please._ The real heir to throne, _Damianos._ ”

“D-Damianos is…”

“Dead? Guess not.” Patroclus grins with a tinge of pride. _Damianos is a warrior. Our King will not be defeated so easily._  “They say his death was falsified, that Kastor enslaved him and sent him to the Prince of Vere as a bed slave. Should’ve known the bastard was lying.”

Gustav exhales weakly after a moment. “Uh, right. Right.”

“Are you alright, Gustav?”

“Yes, I…yes.” He make himself speak, but his voice seems distance.

Patroclus reaches for him just as he sways backward.

_It’s been so long…_

Months, years of captivity, of being away from home, from family and finally, it’s time. _It’s time._ He will be reunited with his brother, his country. He won’t…He will be okay. He’s survived so far. He will live on. _It’s time._

Gustav lurches forward to realize he’s sitting, that Patroclus has moved them both to his bed and currently looks upon him with a familiar concerned frown. He smiles faintly in return, drawing in deep breaths. He focuses on the warm touch upon his shoulder, bringing himself back to steady ground, and Patroclus relaxes with him.

“That hasn’t happened in a while,” he says after a moment.

Gustav ducks his head, gritting his teeth. Is this all it takes for him to fall apart now? He’s grown weak.

Patroclus knocks their shoulders together gamely. “Oh, come on. Relax. It’s a beautiful morning and you, my friend, resemble a stormy night. What is it?”

“Nothing. I just…”

“It’s always nothing with you, isn’t it? Even after all this time.” Yet he still doesn’t sound bitter. Just resigned. Gustav doesn’t deserve his patience. “I thought it was getting better though,” Patroclus continues. “You seemed happier. Helping Master with his tasks. I thought it was helping.”

Gustav exhales shakily. He owes his friend an explanation, but there are things that cannot be spoken, secrets he’s kept to himself for so long, just a bit longer. “I—I am not… it did help. Helping others. Feeling useful.” He looks to Patroclus so the truth behind his words is not unclear. “I am not unhappy here and Ni—Master helps with that a lot. _You_ help with that. I have been better in the last few months than I have in years. Please believe me.”

Patroclus huffs, rolling his eyes despite the pleased smile on his lips. “Alright, alright. You’re not a weeping stray puppy anymore. I understand.” He slings an arm around Gustav’s shoulders. “As long as you’re well, so am I. Now, return my book and find Kolnas. I believe he has some work for you. _I_ shall rest until Master returns.”

Gustav laughs at his friend’s haughty tone before retrieving his book and tossing it to him on the way out.

_The Prince of Vere…_

His freedom is so close. Just miles away on horseback. He used to think about this when he was first captured. He thought about escape, about freedom. He thought about somehow, _somehow_ returning home and to his family. He’d spend days imagining his brother mourning him. His brother alone, roaming the halls of their home, lost. Father did not have the composition to comfort him even though he was only a boy.

Gustav should’ve never been out in the fields that day.

He finds Kolnas amidst all the chaos, barking orders at every idle person that crosses him. He reminds Gustav of an army general, the manner in which he handles the slaves and the servants. Gustav swallows his smile as Kolnas spots him, waving him over briskly.

“I need you in the armory. I want every inch, every weapon, in that place to be shining by the time you are done. I’ve already sent some men down there already, told them you will be coming. I need it done by midday. Pay close attention to the spears. They will be using them for Okton. Understood?”

“Well, hello to you as well. What a _lovely_ morning it is. I slept well, thank you for asking.”

Kolnas fixes his weary gaze on Gustav, so entirely unimpressed with his attempts. Gustav hides another grin. What can he say? It’s a beautiful day.

He doesn’t bother waiting for a response, already halfway across the hall. He is grateful for the task, something to keep himself occupied with. He doesn’t know what he would’ve done if he’d been expected to be a proper bed slave—sitting around all day doing absolutely nothing. A luxurious lifestyle. He would’ve driven himself mad. He had enough solitude to last him two lifetimes when he was imprisoned. _Somehow_ , Nikandros came to understand this a few days into their ~~rela—friendsh~~ acquaintance and soon after, Gustav found his days brimming with little tasks around the fort. He became useful once again.

The men have delegated themselves amongst the weapons by the time he arrives. They greet him casually with easy smiles and a bout of nostalgia swirls through him. He’d been so cautious when he arrived here, checking himself again and again, but it only took them a few weeks to accept him even though he’s Veretian and a slave. He will always be thankful for their camaraderie, their heavy voices that have often brought him out of his own mind, their trust as they allowed him to practice in the arena when he could not find sleep, their stories that made him clutch his stomach in laughter for the first time in years. They are his friends. He has lied to them. He will betray them.

Gustav inhales with shaky breaths as he pulls the first spear out of the holder. Quietly, he moves to the whetstone and gets to work. He can still hear them talking in the background and isn’t surprised to find it to be about Damianos. Some of them believed the rumors to be just that, rumors. Whether that is due to loyalty to Kastor or disbelief in Damianos, Gustav cannot decipher. He’s heard the rumors growing up of the valiance of Damianos. Akelios worshipped him as Vere had worshipped their previous Crown Prince, Auguste. But Akelios had had a better reason to believe in their prince. That much was clear at the end of the battle at Marlas.

There are many others who celebrated this news. Damianos is the rightful heir, the _prince-killer_. Akelios will welcome him back with wide arms before declaring war on Vere.

~~This time, they won’t stop at Delphur. There will be no peace. Vere killed their prince, _enslaved_ him.~~

~~They will not stop until they conquer all of Vere. Damianos leading their troops once again.~~

~~They will fulfill Theomedes’ vision.~~

~~Vere will not stand a chance.~~

Gustav grits his teeth and returns to the task in his hand. He has to have faith. The Regent will know what to do. So will the Prince. Vere is not doomed. Once he returns, he shall do everything in his power to make sure the peace remains.

Time fades, absent of hesitation as Gustav immerses himself in his work. Somewhere in between, Vartis moves beside him, rolling his eyes at the gossiping men. Gustav smiles in return. He doesn’t remember the last time he’s had such…simple friendships. Even as a child, his acquaintances have been with children of families who are important to Father. His brother was the only person he was completely honest with. Here, they don’t care who his family is. All that matters is his work and Gustav has proven himself valuable a long time ago. Since then, these men have invited him to share a fire, pass a tumbler of wine amongst, and gossip like old women. It is easy. Simple. No hidden layers. No secrets. He loves it.

A frail-looking, blond boy—Stef?—comes to inform them that lunch is ready and Gustav finds himself walking back to the fort with Vartis and his vivid retelling of the fight he had last night with his wife. (A complete goddess for having to deal with Vartis’ antics. Ask anyone.) It is evident that he wants Gustav to agree with him and pouts when he doesn’t. But he is not angry in the slightest for he knows his wife is always right. Gustav met her once. A beautiful woman with a wit to match. It is not wise to cross her.

She reminds him of an old love. Or young, depending on how you look at it. They were but children, yet that did not stop him from falling in love. It didn’t stop them from sneaking into private gardens and spilling secrets into the starry nights. It didn’t stop them from visiting the market hand in hand in elaborate disguises, that was half the fun, and mingling with the commoners. It didn’t stop them from stepping forward until there wasn’t any space between them and pressing their lips together. Just once. He wishes it had been more. He’d been so sure of their future together, but their lives had other plans. He wonders if she heard of his death. If she came back home for his funeral. If she mourned him as he misses her.

Gustav shakes his head and digs into the food before him. There is no purpose to these thoughts. It has been years. Yet time has done little to erase her imprint on his heart. He wishes he could imagine her settled, married to some lord and governing her own little kingdom, but that is not who she is. Her soul is as wayward as the storms at sea. She is most likely still lost in her travels, absorbing cultures akin to a chameleon. Perhaps, in another life, he could’ve joined her. In this one, he can only hope that wherever she is, she is safe and well. That she’s having a better life than he has.

They return to the armory with renewed energy, having completed most of their tasks during the morning. Gustav finishes sharpening the spear heads and stays to help Ansik with the swords. They are dusting the shelves when walls begin to echo with hooves, signaling Nikandros’ return. His companions chuckle when he flicks his duster at Ansik and steps out, smoothing his chiton. He knows what this looks like. He knows what they assume. They are wrong, but the lies keep him safe.

He doesn’t pause to look at the camps that are setting up as he crosses the fort. He can’t. Not now. Not yet. None of the servants roaming about give him a second glance as he heads through the arches and into Nikandros’ quarters.

He is there.

Nikandros doesn’t look up when Gustav enters and he can’t decide if he’s comfortable with the sense of security Nikandros displays around him. As if saving his life once warrants that Gustav will never harm him. (He won’t, but that isn’t the point.)

“The rumors are true. Damianos is alive.”

“Yes.” Nikandros smiles as he fusses with the clothing in his closet. Gustav doesn’t know why he bothers, they’re all just long pieces of cloth anyway.

“You have servants to do that.” He gestures at Nikandros while he sinks into the chair by the window.

“I needed something to do with my hands.”

“We could spar.” Nikandros pauses. “…or you can spar with Damianos,” Gustav tags on.

Nikandros finally looks at Gustav and snorts. “Jealousy doesn’t suit you.”

“I am very much capable of sharing, _Master_.” When Nikandros doesn’t reply, he continues, “I’m glad he’s alive.”

“So am I.” Nikandros sighs and moves towards the window, towards him. He takes the seat across from Gustav and very seriously looks at him. “Should I have known?”

“How could you have?”

“We grew up together,” Nikandros insists. “He—is my brother in every manner but blood. I should’ve known. I knew what Kastor is like. I should’ve considered the _possibility_ , at least.”

“And done what? Declared war on Kastor until he told you what he’d done to Damianos? He would’ve had you executed for treason,” Gustav replies softly. Guilt is something he’s become quite familiar with. That he didn’t try hard enough. That he failed his brother. He swallows heavily, smiling quickly when Nikandros’ gaze turns into concern. “I would’ve saved you for nothing, then.”

Nikandros groans and the weight of their words is diffused. “ _Once._ ”

“Your _life._ If it weren’t for me, you would’ve died thinking Damianos is gone forever and you won’t be walking around, grinning like an absolute _fool_.” Gustav huffs dramatically, rolling his eyes, as if it isn’t endearing how much Nikandros cares for his friend.

“So I owe you my life and my happiness?” Nikandros cocks his head, failing miserably to keep his lips straight.

“Why, of course. You owe me the world.” The words fall out before he can snatch them and Gustav snaps his mouth close. It isn’t in place to say these things. Not even as his slave, but especially because of who he—

Nikandros slowly lifts Gustav’s hand from the table.

Oh.

“I do,” Nikandros whispers and flips the pale hand over, pressing his lips to the center of the roughened palm, black eyes steadily on Gustav’s.

_Oh._

He can’t. He swore he won’t pursue this future. Not now _._ Nikandros deserves better.

This might be the only chance he’ll get.

_Oh._

Gustav is across the table within a moment, his lips pressed against Nikandros’. Warm hands cup his face, a thumb caressing his pale cheek. Their lips brush together, again and again, and Gustav can’t help but moan. They move closer. The grip on his skin tightens. His own hands slide all over the exposed sun-kissed skin, unable to decide where to stop. Nikandros begins to part his lips into every kiss, Gustav follows, and their tongues are sliding against each other, wet and warm. A shiver skitters down Gustav’s spine, tinged with guilt and crackling with excitement. Nikandros groans and breaks away to drop suckling kisses along the sharp jaw and down the pale neck. Gustav sighs. Grinning, he teasingly bites at the skin and Gustav gasps, grabs his thick, dark hair by the roots and tugs. Nikandros chuckles against the soft, pink skin and pulls Gustav completely against him.

_Oh_.

Gustav steps back. Nikandros looks at him curiously, his eyes dark, his lips wet.

Flushing, he forces himself to speak—explain. “I, I’m sorry. I just…” _Perhaps in another life…_ “Forgive me. I…”

“Gustav,” Nikandros interrupts firmly, gently pulling him closer. “Never apologize for saying no with me. You’re allowed to change your mind, darling.”

Guilt sears through Gustav, but he manages a weak smile as Nikandros pushes strands of his light blond hair behind his ear. “Why don’t you take the rest of the day off? Kolnas reported that you’ve been quite busy these past few days, you deserve a break.”

“Thank you. I—I think I will just retire to my room for day,” Gustav forces out.

Nikandros grins and leans in for a soft and swift kiss. “Enjoy the day off, darling. _I_ have to ready for an inquisition.”

“Good luck,” Gustav whispers and hurries out of the room.

_What has he done?_

He knew from the beginning that Nikandros was interested in him. There was a time he’d been afraid of that interest, but Nikandros never pushed. In fact, beyond the initial heat he’d seen in his Master’s eyes on his first night here, Nikandros has treated him…as a friend. Gustav not only took advantage of that, he took that trust, stomped on it and threw it to the dogs. It’s been years, but Gustav can still recognize the soft look in his dark brown eyes, the fondness with which he returned the kiss.

_If he only knew the truth…_

Gustav draws in some calming breaths before entering the shared quarters. He heads to the basin in the corner and splashes chilled water over his face. It does little to calm his racing mind, but at least he won’t resemble a ghost anymore. He pours a few more handfuls of water over his arms and legs and revels in the sensation of a cooling body as the water swirls down the drain. He quickly dries himself and gets comfortable in his cot beside the window. Refusing to allow his mind a chance to wander, he picks up the reading he’d left under his pillow last night and continues. It’s an old Akelion scripture, the dialect different than it is now, and Gustav enjoys the challenge. The text borrows heavily from Patran, making it a bit easier for him to decipher the intended meaning.

Shadows perform an intricate dance in Gustav’s periphery as time passes. The soft yellow glow of the skies turns deep orange then red. It isn’t until Gustav finds himself peering at every word that he realizes that night has fallen. He stretches in his seat and then on his feet before lighting the olive oil lamps in the room. With only a few pages left, he decides to finish his reading before wandering out. From the faded noises that reach him, the reception will continue well into the night.

It doesn’t take him long to complete the book and he even goes back to mark the events that stand out in his mind so that he can discuss them with Patroclus. Book in hand, he heads to Patroclus’ chambers, only to find them empty. He should have guessed that Patroclus would be spending the night with Ni—Master. Now that his distraction is over with, the unsettled pit in his stomach returns full force as he wanders aimlessly around the fort, avoiding the festivities and the camps. He is on his way to the armory (cataloging the weapons gives him something to do) when he hears murmured voices echoing against the bare walls. No one is supposed to be here, not at this hour, not today. Once he is certain they are not moving closer, he inches towards the low sounds.

They’re coming from one of the fort’s spare rooms, the ones Nikandros allowed the slaves of his visitors to stay in. They are undecorated, simple rooms filled with only the necessities. Except this one is supposed to be empty. He moves carefully until he is confident he cannot be seen through the slits of the door before peeking in.

It’s a…soldier and a young blond boy. The boy is curled up into the corner of the bed, the other man at the other end. The man shifts in his seat and Gustav stills. It’s Jord.

It’s _Jord._

Dazed, he stares at the man he’d grown up with. Jord has changed, physically—but that is to be expected. There’s a different air about him now, a certain hesitancy. Gustav wonders if that’s simply who Jord is now or if it’s the boy that brings out the vulnerability in his friend. Reading Jord is muscle memory and Gustav can tell that whoever this boy is, Jord cares for him a great deal. He can see it in the way Jord is keeping his face carefully open, slightly hopeful. Gustav catches himself smiling as he retreats before he is caught. Jord is a good man. He deserves happiness.

Gustav is happy for him.

He is.

_He is._

Gustav exhales shakily, resting against a wall for support.

_They’re here. They’re really here. You can go home._

A tidal wave of emotions and he is a single mortal against them.

_You can go home._

Too restless to go through a mundane task of counting weapons, he changes direction completely and heads to the arena.

Except it wasn’t empty.

He slips through the back door and into a warzone. At least that what it looks like. Weapons, baskets and benches cluttered the floor. Sawdust is everywhere. In the middle stands Damianos, panting and bruised. Opposite of him, a lean, pale mess of man rises from the ground. There is sawdust in his blond hair. _Laurent._

Gustav can’t move.

Laurent speaks, his voice hissing like a viper through the arena, progressively getting louder. Loud enough for Gustav to hear, “—could have never beaten you.”

“No, you couldn’t have.” Damianos speaks firmly. His voice is strong and unwavering despite the recent fight. “You’re not good enough. You would’ve come for revenge, and I would have killed you. That’s how it would have been between us. Is that what you would have wanted?”

“ _Yes,_ ” Laurent replies before Damianos can finish. “He was everything I had.”

_Auguste._

They are talking about Auguste. About—

“I know that I was never good enough,” Laurent continues, his voice still hard.

_But you are. You always have been. You’re a Prince._

“Neither was your brother.”

Gustav flinches.

“You’re wrong,” Laurent chokes out. “He was—”

“What?” Damainos’ voice is gentler despite his harsh words.

“Better than I am. He would have—” Laurent laughs. Short, disbelieving. “Stopped you.”

Gustav swallows heavily. He shouldn’t be here. This isn’t meant to be his. He needs to leave.

Damianos moves slowly, picking up a knife and putting it in Laurent’s hand. Braces it. Pulls it toward his own.

Gustav can’t hear the words spoken, but he can read Damianos’ lips. _Stop me._

He cannot be serious. Can he? Would the Prince of Akelios really be this…careless as to put his life in the hands of the brother of the man he killed?

The tense moment is stretched, then shattered when Nikandros strolls through the open doors. Damianos quickly steps back. The knife clatters to the floor. Laurent tenses, refusing to look at the intruder.

“What—what are you doing?” Nikandros chokes out, furious.

Damianos turns to Nikandros, an excuse on his tongue, and Gustav turns to leave before—

Before anything else happens.

Before he does something idiotic.

_Not now. Not yet._

He’s not ready to say goodbye.

He owes Nikandros so much more than _this._

But he sealed their fate when he succumbed to his desires.

_There is no other way._

It’ll come to this. Now or tomorrow or the day after. He will betray Nikandros and Patroclus and Vatris and everyone else who call him friend.

_There is no other way._

Clasping his fingers together, Gustav goes back into the training arena. His footsteps firm despite his hesitancy, his doubts, his worries. This is how it has always meant to be. He moves quietly, contemplating the best way to…approach.

He doesn’t need to for the moment he steps away from behind the armory, Damianos sees him, catches his movement. Gustav forces himself to meet his gaze, to not find pleasure at his wide eyes and bloodless face. It only takes a moment for the other two to notice. Gustav shifts his gaze.

Nikandros smiles immediately and it feels as if the knife Damianos held to Laurent is twisting in his gut instead. Gustav averts his gaze. “Darling, I thought you’d fallen asleep. We have the games tomorrow, you should rest.”

Gustav doesn’t reply. He doesn’t know if he _can_ speak.

This moment, he imagined it for years…

He imagined Laurent shocked, but pleased. He imagined tears in Laurent’s blue eyes, mirroring his own. He imagined Laurent embracing him. He imagined Laurent smiling widely, relieved. He imagined Laurent furious, a lion’s rage locked within a wisp of a body.

He never imagined a look of pure horror settling in Laurent’s crystal blue eyes.

_Laurent isn’t a child anymore._

He never imagined Laurent taking a step backward, swaying.

_You don’t know Laurent anymore._

He never imagined the flat tone that whispers his birth name.

_“Auguste.”_


	2. Chapter 2

_**consolidation** (noun) - t he improvement of a player's position by the reposition of one or more pieces to better square(s), typically after a player's attack or combination has left his or her pieces in poor positions or uncoordinated._

* * *

“Hello, little brother.”

The words are wisps of air struggling through the dam of emotions in his throat, calm despite the whirlpool raging within his heart.

Beside him, Nikandros exhales weakly, stumbling backward, but Auguste doesn’t allow his attention to waver.

_Not yet._

Laurent has grown, his muscles more pronounced, his bones elongated and firm. He holds himself tall and stiff, much like their father used to. His face has matured, skin pulled tight against the bones, and he’s grown into his ears. His eyes flit over Auguste’s rapidly, akin to a hummingbird, yet no emotions pass his face. Auguste has always been able to read Laurent, ever since he was a baby. What had changed so drastically in a few years?

Auguste swallows, banishing the possibilities from his mind, and steps forward, but Damianos interrupts. “Perhaps we should continue this in a more private setting?” His voice is quieter from moments ago and his eyes are trained on Laurent. There is a certain softness about the way he holds himself, his arms outstretched, his eyes calm. Strange.

Laurent nods stiffly, turns on his heel and walks out of the room without a backward glance.

Laurent has always been a bit closed off, but not like this. Not this… _cold_. Auguste grits his teeth and follows, Damianos and Nikandros tailing behind. Oil lamps light the way, placed at every other pillar. Most shine brightly while others flicker, plunging them into darkness. The night keeps them cover. In the night, Auguste doesn’t have to pretend as he has for so many months. In the night, he is his own man again. Auguste keeps his eyes forward despite the urge to glance sideways, to catch Nikandros’ form in his peripheral.

He’s made his decision. He acted. He can’t go back no matter what.

He doesn’t regret it. After all, he is free.

And yet…

They’d had something special. Beyond a master, Auguste thought of Nikandros as a friend, an equal. He had allowed Auguste to see that side of him. That’s who Auguste befriended, who he.

Well, it doesn’t matter anymore.

Laurent holds the door open and Auguste steps into the room. It is one of the biggest rooms in the fort, reserved for royalty. It takes a quick sweep of the silk sheets on the mattress against the back wall, the porcelain pitchers on the table and the coats in the closet for Auguste to realize this is Laurent’s room. He smiles lightly to himself because the sight is a familiar one. Laurent has always cared for appearances. At least that hasn’t changed.

Maybe this means Laurent will listen to him, will believe him. Laurent had trusted him, once. Is that enough to believe him again? Laurent might even know more about this than Auguste has been able to gather. He is traveling with Damianos, the son of Theomedes, the one who was betrayed his bastard brother, Kastor. From what he could decipher after Damianos’ death and the attempt at Nikandros’, Kastor is responsible to both of them and perhaps even Theomedes’ ill health. Yet he has not been able to connect his own fate to Kastor. He’s missi—

Auguste jumps at a sudden movement, a flash that shoves Nikandros to the door, metal glinting at his throat. Laurent stands before him, stiff and unrelenting, the dagger digging into the darkened skin. Nikandros’ fingers curl into fists, yet hang uselessly by his sides for one wrong breath and the blade will be coated in his scarlet blood.

Damianos reacts faster than Auguste does, moving between Laurent and Nikandros. Or trying to. Without hesitation, Damianos touches the arm that holds a life in its grip.

“Laurent, stop.” It’s a plea and command and Auguste notes the familiarity with which Damianos speaks his brother’s name.

“ _Darling,_ ” Laurent spits out and it takes a moment for Auguste to realize that Laurent is repeating Nikandros’ words rather than referring to Damianos. But he’s not wrong about the strings that encircle Damianos and his brother. There is something more between the two than a political partnership.

Nikandros opens his mouth to reply, but Damianos glares him into silence. “Laurent, let’s talk about this. _Please._ ” Damianos’ voice grows more urgent and Auguste steps closer to notice the singular trail of blood traveling down Nikandros’ neck.

“He has nothing to do with this.” Auguste finally finds his voice. “Brother—Laurent, don’t kill an innocent man. He didn’t know any of this.”

Laurent doesn’t move.

“You’re his slave,” Laurent states, his voice strange.

“Yes. I was gifted to him.”

Laurent exhales sharply, rage flashing through him, and steps away from Nikandros. Damianos releases his grip on Laurent to take Nikandros’ hand and leads him to a chair.

“It’s just a nick,” Nikandros says, smacking away Damianos’ hands, and pours himself a cup of water.

He maintains a calm demeanor, a relaxed posture, but Auguste can detect the steel beneath his eyes, the fire burning in his gut, engulfing every thought that crawls into his mind. He can tell because he’s seen Nikandros like this once before. Long ago. When they had just begun uncovering each other, stripping back layers piece by piece. A terrifying time made dangerous by the King’s men and their deadly intentions. A grieving period marred by blood. Nikandros was then as he is now,

waiting.

Auguste will have to extinguish his anger before it spreads. Before it hurts his brother. Before it hurts Nikandros himself.

Auguste diverts his gaze from Nikandros to find Damianos staring at him. There’s something…soft about his eyes as he contemplates Auguste. Whatever he finds in Auguste, he smiles at briefly before nudging Nikandros lightly.

“Nikandros and I are going for a walk,” Damianos declares and Auguste finds himself liking the prince more and more. With a meaningful look at Laurent who doesn’t even look up to meet his eyes (which doesn’t seem to bother Damianos in the slightest), Damianos continues, “A long walk. We’ll discuss this situation once we return.”

With that, Damianos drags Nikandros out of the room and shuts the door behind him.

_And then, there is two._

Auguste rolls his eyes at himself and pulls up a chair. Laurent doesn’t move.

“You look well,” Auguste begins after a period of silence. “I trust Vere has treated their prince fairly.”

Laurent sinks to the floor, his back digging into the frame of the cot pushed up against the back wall.

“I’m glad. I was quite worried about you.”

_More than you’ll ever know…_

“Yes. Indeed. I learned how to survive without you, brother.” There it is again. That flat tone Auguste is beginning to hate. The emotionless one. For a moment, he wonders why Laurent has had to perfect this tone and he wrenches himself away from those thoughts before they can consume him.

Auguste takes a deep breath. He’s never attempted to hide his thoughts from Laurent before. He won’t start now. “You don’t seem very happy to see me, little brother.”

Laurent lets his head roll back against the cot before he turns to look at Auguste, a sneer across his face. “You’re a bit late.”

So he was right. Someone hurt his brother. Harmed him in a way that is not visible. Scars etched on his mind, his heart rather than his skin.

_You could’ve protected him._

_If only you’d been there..._

Auguste grits his teeth. No. No. He refuses to fall into the whirlpool of his thoughts now. He’s failed Laurent once. He won’t again.

He falls to his knees. Next to Laurent. He can’t bring himself to be as close to him as he wishes. Just in case his brother would prefer it.

“Forgive me, Laurent.”

One,

           two breaths.

Laurent swallows thickly as water fills his eyes. Auguste doesn’t hesitate to reach out and hold his brother’s face within his palms as he used to, a thumb on Laurent’s quivering lips.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” Auguste whispers. Kingdom be damned, the only reason Auguste spent years trying to escape is Laurent. Ever since he held his little brother in his arms as a newborn, he knew with his entire being that he exists for Laurent. To protect his little brother. To love and be loved by him.

Laurent reaches up to cover Auguste’s fingers with his own and tugs lightly until they’re in his lap. Watching their fingers tangled together, Auguste realizes his hands trembling. “There’s nothing to forgive, Auguste. You—you’re alive. That’s enough. That’s enough.”

He doesn’t resist as Auguste pulls him into his arms as tightly as possible.

_He’s here. He’s here. He’s here._

Seven years and Auguste has his brother in his arms again. He closes his eyes and breathes.

_He’s alive._

_He’s safe._

The weight of his brother in his arms. His warmth. His scent. His breath puffing against Auguste’s shoulder. His heart beating against Auguste’s skin.

_They made it._

And nothing else matters.


	3. Chapter 3

_**gambit**  (noun) - a sacrifice used to gain an early advantage in space or time in the opening._

* * *

 

A series of rapt knocks on the door announce the return of their Akielon friends and Laurent straightens from his comfortable position on Auguste’s shoulder. A portion of the stoic mask returns and Auguste wonders what Damianos accomplished in his time at Arles to provoke such mixed feelings within his brother.

Damianos’ warm smile as he enters is the complete opposite of Nikandros’ blank face and averted gaze and Auguste finds himself responding to the warmth of the Akielon prince easily. They all ignore the slight falter in Damianos’ step when he sees the two Veretian brothers seated on the floor, side by side, inches apart. Auguste can only imagine the image they must strike, both pale and blond. Although Auguste has considerably darkened over the years, their resemblance is still undeniable. They are, after all, brothers.

Damianos doesn’t hesitate to sink to the floor across from Auguste and fold his legs up, surprisingly graceful for a man his stature.  “Allow me to be the first Akielon to welcome you back, Your Highness.”

“Thank you.” Auguste grins, hooking an arm over Laurent’s shoulder. “It’s quite nice to be amongst the living again.”

Nikandros flinches.

“I’m familiar with the feeling.” Damianos chuckles. Then he pats the spot beside him and tilts his head. “Nikandros, sit. You’re making me nervous.”

“I’m quite comfortable where I am, Damen.”

Damianos rolls his eyes. “Very well, then. Sulk.”

Turning his attention back, he spares a moment to gauge Laurent before opening his mouth to speak. Just as Auguste used to. His brother has always been a bit on the quiet side, preferring to hold his emotions close to his heart, and Auguste has always been sensitive to his thought process. Now, it appears Laurent has allowed Damianos the same privilege.

“I have not told him,” Laurent interrupts Damianos’ thoughts. “We decided to wait for the two of us before we had any discussions, made any decisions.” Huh. “Repeating the same story would be a waste of time. Clearly,” Laurent hastily adds, holding too still under Auguste’s arm.

“Clearly,” Damianos repeats before turning his attention to Auguste who gets the distinct impression that he’s trying his best not to roll his eyes at Laurent.

Swallowing a protective surge, Auguste opts for honesty. “I’m not sure I have much to say. I haven’t—it hasn’t made much sense to me. What happened.” Laurent shifts under him and Auguste pulls in just a bit tighter. _I’m here._ Auguste takes a few moments to consider what to say…where to start. He focuses on a spot beside Damianos’ head and speaks, “Damianos killed me. Or—he should’ve. I should have died, but I didn’t. I remember the pain, the blood, father and Laurent and then, nothing. It was black or maybe blurred. I don’t remember much after that. Every once in awhile, voices faded in and out. The pain lessened, but I never woke up. I never moved. Until I did.

“When I woke up, conscious, able to move, I was in the middle of the waters. In the belly of a ship. I was the only one there. I was for...a day, maybe two. Then this man opened the hatch and I was taken to a prison.” _Dragged when he couldn’t even stand. Pushed when he couldn’t even see._ Auguste takes a deep breath. “The man never spoke and the people at the prison spoke nothing but Akielon.”

“Akielon,” Damianos and Laurent seethe at the same time and while Laurent’s spite is a comfort, Damianos’ anger is a surprise. Perhaps it shouldn’t be. Perhaps this is who Damianos is. A righteous man. He’s forgiven Damianos for killing him a long time ago. They were at war. Auguste would’ve tried to kill him too. He almost succeeded, but failed. That is war. Auguste had heard much about Damianos growing up. He remembers being grateful, going to war with a honorable man.

“They were hard to understand and I did not realize until I came here that the Akielon they spoke was not native. I was in that prison for...years. Escape was futile, the guards changed shifts every week and I think I was the only prisoner there, but that didn’t exactly stop me from trying.” The scars on the back of his legs are proof of that. “And then, one day, they let me out. Chained me. Took me to a ship. Brought me here. Gave me to the Kyros of Delphur as a gift from the South.”

Auguste cannot bring himself to look at Nikandros and yet, he feels the reaction to his words. The way Nikandros straightens, no doubt with a frown on his face or perhaps Auguste simply rekindled the flames of anger and betrayal.  Yet he cannot bring himself to regret his words. True words. He'd been gifted to the Kyros, but Nikandros was the one who befriended him. They gave him to the Kyros, hoping to enslave him, but Nikandros sewed him wings threaded with trust and friendship and hope instead.

Auguste ignores the way his heart twists in his chest and turns to Damianos. Who cannot meet his eyes. Whose head is bowing to the floor, jaw clenching, and Auguste has to run through his word again to realize that Damianos is considering the same conclusion Auguste has carried all these years: Kastor.

But Kastor isn’t just a bastard prince from another kingdom to Damianos, now is he? Kastor is his brother. His older brother, despite everything. A man Damianos undoubtedly looked up to. A man who likely taught Damianos to hold his first sword, mount his first horse. Kastor is Damianos’ family. Suddenly, his falter at the sight of the Veretian brothers sitting side by side makes too much sense and Auguste’s heart squeezed in sympathy. He can’t imagine what he’d do if Laurent turned against him. He’d much rather have a sword run through him, again, than fight his own brother.

“Nothing is confirmed,” Auguste adds gently. “I haven’t exactly had the chance. Coming here made only one thing clear and that is, my imprisonment was one move in a very long game.”

“Do you remember how long the journey to Marlas took?” Damianos finally speaks.

“It was hard to tell. There was little light where I was. I estimated…perhaps a week or so.”

Silence allows that thought to settle in.

It’s broken when Laurent twists to face him. “You’re not supposed to be here. They wouldn’t have you this close to Vere or give you to Nikandros. It’s too risky.”

“They?”

“Kastor. Our uncle.”

Auguste narrows his eyes, regarding Laurent in a new light. _Our uncle._ The words are said without hesitation, without emotion. Carefully so.

Our uncle.

Auguste remembers the rumors that slithered around the palace pillars, remembers his father insists that he carry a dagger everywhere, remember those swift movements that prickled his conscious and he turned to his uncle’s soft gaze.

It’s a dawning horror—the realization. He remembers all the rumors he used to hear, the ones he’d let out of the other ear because it’d never affect _him_ . He’d had no reason to take notice. He’d had no reason to make the connection between his father’s instructions and the whispers. He’d had no reason to pass on the warning because his uncle wouldn’t dare touch _him_. Not his brother’s son. Not the country’s Crown Prince.

Laurent had been alone. Laurent had been unprotected and utterly alone.

_Son of a—_

Laurent looks back at him, concern floating in his eyes, masking the darker emotions that dwell under. The ones that make Auguste have little doubt that he’d enjoy tearing _their dear uncle_ apart limbs by limb.

Auguste takes a deep breath and locks every muscle in his body.

_Not now. Not like this._

_Inhale_ , ten, nine, eight, seven, six, _exhale_ , five, four, three, two, one.

Not in the open with Damianos and Nikandros merely feet away.

 _Inhale_ , ten, nine, eight, seven, six, _exhale_ , five, four, three, two, one.

“Tell me.” The words still come out strained, a wisp of a ribbon holding onto sanity amidst the rage storming within him.

Laurent shrugs, a wry smirk twisting his lips. “He took his time and his pick of the council. By the time I realized his game, he’d already set the board.” His gaze travels to where Damianos sits, cross-legged, silent. “I caught up, though. Eventually. Or at least I thought I did. Clearly I was mistaken.”

Damianos frowns. “We were.”

 _We_.

A deliberate choice or a slip of tongue?

For a moment, Auguste considers Damianos and Laurent together. Sets what he’s learned of Damianos against what he knows of Laurent, things that he believes hasn’t changed in the past seven years. But that’s not true, is it? Things have changed. Laurent has changed. He cannot make any conclusions, not yet.

Auguste breathes deeply. “Each blow got rid of the rightful heirs, giving themselves a direct line to the throne. Power. Our uncle had enough time after my death to sway the Council. Perhaps discredit Laurent.” _Or kill him._ “Kastor ascended amongst the chaos. It’s clean, I’ll give them that. Except, like you said, we’re both alive. Here at Marlas.”

“I’m sure the word has gotten around of Damanios’ return,” Laurent muses. “Kastor knows. He will try to attack. Our uncle will no doubt aide him in his mission. The question is if our uncle knows about you, brother.”

“You’re still uncertain that your uncle was the one who sent Auguste here.”

Laurent’s jaw clenches for a brief moment. “Like I said, it’s too risky. He wouldn’t want Auguste so…close. Delfeur was Vere’s once. Veretians live here. Any of them could have recognized him. I don’t—I don’t understand why—”

“We have an unknown player in the field,” Damianos concludes. “Mostly likely the one who imprisoned Auguste.”

“What do you remember about the prison?” Nikandros moves to sit beside Damianos, his face stiffly warm.

“It was always warm. Sometimes hot. Nothing like the weather in Vere. There were always birds chirping at all times of the day. Sand on the guards’ legs sometimes.”

Damianos pales. “A prison by the coast, it sounds like,” he chokes out.

 _Ios_.

Had Damianos really not known?

“What about Isthima?”

Damianos’ head snaps up and he stares at Laurent for a long moment. “Possible. I suppose. They’ve never shown any inclinations towards betrayal, but—”

“Yes, because you’re clearly adept at picking up on such matters,” Laurent cuts in smoothly. Damianos straightens in anger. “What do _you_ think, Nikandros?”

“It’s possible, I suppose. Achilles is a good man, but hardly the first to be influenced by power.”

“Have you seen him since…”

“Your death?” Nikandros smirks wryly at his friend. “At the funeral. He seemed truly upset, but so did Kastor.”

“Is he a threat?” Laurent says bluntly.

“He’s a smart man. A good general. He’s not…stupid enough to be greedy.”

“Hm.” Laurent reclines to rest on the bed post.

“We shouldn’t worry about him now. He’s not here and we have pressing issues.” Damianos tilts his head towards Auguste.

“I agree, but we cannot afford to forget him either. Uncle chose him for a reason.”

“Auguste should stay in hiding. Remain as Gustav. It’s the safe play.”

“For you,” Laurent replies pointedly to Nikandros. “If it comes out that Akielos has been hiding Auguste for years…”

“It’s enough for another war,” Auguste concludes. “They won’t stay to listen to our theories about Uncle.”

“So we need evidence.” Damianos exhales. “Undeniable proof that he is guilty and if he gets even the inkling that Auguste exists before then…”

“Then I’ll remain as Gustav for as long as we need."


	4. Chapter 4

_**Outflanking** \- a maneuver where one makes forward progress up the board while not allowing the opponent to gain the opposition (or) temporarily giving up the opposition in order to achieve a certain goal._

* * *

Auguste follows Nikandros.

Damianos retires to his room and Auguste cannot stay with Laurent for long no matter his wishes. He pulls his little brother into a tight hug and doesn’t take it personally when Laurent doesn’t return it with the same fervor and follows Nikandros.

It isn’t an odd sight. He’d done it a thousand times before. It’s a familiar route, usually filled with chatter, ease evident in their limbs. Today, neither is present. Nikandros does not wait for him to fall into pace. The muscles thinly covered by his chiton are tight as he storms through the hallways. If Auguste could see his face right now, he’s positive that Nik would have that _look_ on his face. The one of barely-contained fury.

A smarter man would probably leave him be. Allow him his space and time.

The way Auguste sees it, they’ll need to talk someday. He’d much rather get it out of the way.

Nikandros slams the door open, the wood shattering against the wall. Auguste closes it gently behind him, smiling at the startled guard passing by.

Tension sinks into the silence of the room, turning everything it touches into glass. One wrong move and it all shatters. A thousand shards of shimmering glass between them.

Nikandros takes one deep, steadying breath. Another. Auguste watches the muscles of his back rise and fall in synchrony. By Gods, he is beautiful. “Why did you stay?”

“Because it was safer. Because I needed information,” Auguste answers honestly. That is all he can give Nikandros now.

“Why did you save me?”

“Because they were going to kill you and I didn’t know you, but I could tell that you were a good man. It is all I needed.”

Nikandros turns, his fists in tight balls, his jaw clenched in tight lines. He doesn’t stop until he has Auguste backed up against the door. He doesn’t stop until Nikandros is only thing Auguste can see. “Why did you kiss me?”

Auguste’s lips twist in a sharp smile. “I don’t know.”

Nikandros returns his smile and Auguste can feel the sharp, jagged glass pieces tearing into his chest. “Go to bed… _Gustav._ ”

* * *

 

Auguste wakes up to chaos for the second day in a row. He stops by the kitchens for a meal, blending into the crew enough that Kolnas does not find him and winks his thanks to Elise before sneaking into Patroclus’ room. It’s empty and he isn’t surprised. Patroclus always enjoys watching activities around the court. Meanwhile, his room provides the perfect opportunity to just _be_ —undisturbed.

Ever since he arrived at Marlas, he’s been trying to fit his pieces on the board, trying to figure out the arrangement of the game. It turns out that he’s been missing most of the board. He couldn’t have seen or predicted the truth. He knows that. His mind knows that. His mind knows that it isn’t foolish to believe in family. His mind is also painfully aware that his faith harmed his little brother in ways that cannot be undone. He’d like to console himself with the possibility that his— _no_ , the Regent would not have been that _vile_ towards his own nephew, but that would be a lie. It is a very possibility that—that he’d—

Auguste screws his eyes shut and breathes slowly.

His brother had been a mere child. A child that lost his father and his brother. A child that needed comfort and warmth.

He remembers quite clearly how…clever the Regent can be.

The Regent wouldn’t have had to force himself on his brother, no. The Regent never needed violence. He can talk his way into his desires.

Auguste takes a deep, steady breath, and then another and another when the air in his lungs does very little to loosen his tight chest, to extinguish the fire searing through his veins. Anger isn’t going to help his brother. No. Anger will have to wait until he can get his dear Uncle within the distance of his fists.

He needs to calm now. He needs to be good, perfect. He has to be Gustav.

Auguste rubs his hands over his face and pats his cheeks sharply. He doesn’t understand why he thought silence would do him any good. It never has before. Stretching his muscles as he rises, he considers his options. If he finds Kolnas, it is possible that he might assign him to help the servers or aide during the games in some manner. There are thousands out there. He cannot risk being recognized. He cannot remain here in the quiet either. He _needs_ to do something.

* * *

Auguste ends up in the library, undetected. It’s the one place he can think of that will be empty while allowing him to be active.

He browses through the spines on the shelves; most of the books he’s already read stacked on the floor, Patroclus’ discarded books piled neatly in a corner behind the door. They were supposed to be reading another Akielon folklore next, but Patroclus may strangle him if he read it without him. So instead, Auguste selects a random reading from the options and settles by the window. The sunlight shines brightly through the clear ornate glass and warms his skin. He forces himself to pay attention to the words before him, bringing the obscure figures to life in his mind. His imagination bent with the shadows in an elaborate dance and suddenly all he can think about is the celebration Father threw when his brother turned five. It was a lavish undertaking from exquisite meals brought in by foreign chefs to the drapery covering almost every inch of the palace. Laurent didn’t care much for them, Auguste knew, but his Father had decided that he should start getting used to the attention. All through the night, Laurent had sulked about with a tremendous scowl on his face until the dancers came out. He remembers Laurent taking interest for once, his pale eyes following every dip, curve and twist. If he closes his eyes, he can _feel_ it. The laughter, muted in the background. The clinking of glasses. The taste of seasoned meat still lingering in his tongue. The lights blazing about as the music flowed between the dancers’ bodies. He remembers looking to Laurent by his side and smiling as his brother smiled. He remembers his father grabbing his brother in a fierce embrace after everyone left, a little unsteady on his feet as he swings Laurent around with a boisterous laugh. He remembers his father joining them in Laurent’s chamber and his deep yet light voice soothing them to sleep with legends of the fallen.

His father had died avenging himself or so he’d heard. It’s been six years and Auguste hasn’t visited his grave. Six years, his father has been rotting away in the ground as he rotted away in a prison. Some speak of tales of the dead—how they walk amongst us, how they can see this world, how they can remember who they are. Tales of restless souls, robbed of their future. Auguste never understood how someone could be robbed of anything if death is their fate. Yet, he can’t help but wonder if his Father knew—knows. If his Father has found some peace in the knowledge that he isn’t really dead, that he never sent his son to his death.

A sharp noise jolts him into the present and he turns to see who—

“Oh! I didn’t rea—”

“Katalina?”

_She’s here. She’s really here. How is she here?_

He’s standing, his book forgotten somewhere, and he’s positive that his own face mirrors hers, both frozen in shock, surprise.

_Why would—Oh. Yes. I’m not dead._

“Hello.”

Her lips wobble for a moment then she swallows heavily. Her mouth widens around a syllabus and he has his palm over her mouth, _her_ pressed against a wall before she can voice anything.

“Don’t.” He peeks outside for a moment and shuts the door firmly. He moves his palm from her lips to her cheek. “So…I’m not really dead.”

She sags against the wall, her chest heaving. “You—you—” Tears well up in her beautiful crystal clear blue eyes and _oh, you’re here. You’re really here._

His heart skips a beat or three.

Her frozen face crumbles and a moment later, he’s the one against a wall, her pressed up against him. Her eyes wild, inches from his own, fluttering about his face. “How are you—”

“I was captured, not killed. It’s complicated.”

She jerks back from him and stares at him for a moment. Her fingers tremble as she flattens her palm against his chest and he covers them. A few breaths later, “You’re real?”

He smiles. “I am. As real as you.” He cups her face. “And you…you are as beautiful as I remember.”

“I went to your grave.” Her voice hitches. “It was the first thing I did when I came back.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Mother told me when I was in—she knew, you know? I know we said w-w…we wouldn’t tell anyone.” Katalina exhales shakily, pressing her palm to her face. “But she knew and she sent me a letter with a lotus because she somehow knew that you…you’re the one who gives them to me.”

She doesn’t pull back when he reaches for her and she rests against him when he presses his lips to her forehead. She feels the same yet different under his touch then she did all those years ago. She had not been his first love. She had not been his love at all. They’d started as something so pure, so clear and maintained that almost to the very end. He’d kissed her once because he had to know what it felt like, because he may never get the chance again, because he would never be her shackles and if she wanted to explore the world, then she would…

But he’d never gotten to tell her that he loved her and the thought had haunted him for the years that came after.

“You’re really real.” A whisper.

“Yes.”

She nods slightly. “Does Laurent know?”

Auguste smiles. Katalina has always looked out for Laurent as her own. “Yes. We met yesterday.”

“How did he take it?” she says, dancing her fingers down his arm and intertwining them with his.

“Good. I suppose. I…I feel as if I got more answers than he did and I haven’t seen him since then, so.”

“Is there a reason the fort isn’t buzzing with the news that their Prince is alive?”

He sighs. “How much do you know?”

“About Kastor or your Uncle?”

“Both. I…Katalina.” She looks up at him. “Do you know what he…did? H-How bad is…” _How bad is he hurt?_

Her carefully-blank expression says more than she could and he feels something sour settle in his stomach. “I have not talked to him. Not about—he’s aware he is not alone. I made sure that he knows that he has _me_ , but I don’t think that’s enough. He’s different, Auguste. Whatever happened changed him and I don’t think he can change back. I don’t know if he wants to. Who he is now is a summation of all of his experiences that came before, is _who he is_ and…perhaps he needs that. Perhaps that’s who he needs to be.”

“He got hurt. Our uncle _hurt_ him,” he spits out, but his vitriol is wasted on a person who agrees with him.

“Laurent is a fighter. Always has been even as a child. He’s…it’s not as bad as you think. He’ll be okay. Especially since he has you back now.”

Auguste smiles as her words wash calmly over him and for a moment, he chooses to believe in them. “Laurent says that our Uncle and Kastor are trying to start a war. They’re getting closer every day. To put an end to it completely, we need evidence.”

“Do you not have any?”

August shrugs helplessly. “I can’t recall anything. I wish I could be of more assistance, but after years of going over my capture in my mind…I still have nothing of use.”

“It’s okay. We will destroy the Regent one way or another. Don’t worry too much. All that is required of you is your presence by Laurent’s side.”

“ _That_ I can do.” Auguste grins up at his former lover who chuckles in return.

“May I ask you something?”

“You just did.”

“Auguste.”

“Alright!” Auguste bites away a laugh. “Yes, _of course_.”

“Have…is this where you have been this whole time?”

“No. I was healed, I presume, after the battle and then imprisoned. I was brought only a few months ago.”

“Healed?”

“Damianos nearly killed me. I’m still uncertain how I survived.” Auguste presses a palm against the scar on his chest, remembering that day, the sweltering sun, the stench of a battle, the clash of weapons—metal against metal, unforgiving… “I’ve seen men die from mere cuts. I was run through, clean, centimeters from my heart and yet, I lived.”

“Hmm…” Katalina’s eyes furrow as she traced his wound over his fingers. “What do you remember from that time?”

“Nothing worth mentioning. Voices that were unrecognizable. It—I was not awake enough to understand anything, but their language was different.”

“What about the weather?”

“The weather?”

“Were you cold? Hot? Sweaty?”

“I don’t remember. Cold, I suppose. There was always a weight on me. I thought, perhaps that was to weigh me down, but it could have...been...a blanket. Why do you ask?”

“Can you meet with Laurent tomorrow morning?”

“I was going to see him tonight.”

“I would not recommend that,” Katalina draws out with a secret smile. Auguste raises an eyebrow to which she replies, “Makedon was quite insistent in making a friend out of Laurent when I left. I would be surprised if he can form a sentence at his state.”

“Oh.”

“Stop frowning.” She swats him lightly. “Damen will take care of him.”

“Does Damen take care of my brother often?”

Katalina rolls her eyes. “It isn’t as you think.”

“I’m not thinking anything.”

“Of course you aren’t,” she teases. “Either way, meet me in Laurent’s chambers tomorrow morning, yes?”

“You know something, don’t you?”

Katalina hesitates. “Yes. No. I need to talk to someone. I’ll know for certain tomorrow.” She smiles and cups his cheek. “I’ll see you then, Your Majesty.”

“And you, Your Highness.” Auguste presses his lips to her fingers. “I never imagined I would see you again, you know.”

Katalina scoffs lightly, tears welling up in her eyes for a moment. “Neither did I, but…I am so glad, Auguste.”

“Don’t worry, my lotus. I won’t leave that easily again.”

**Author's Note:**

> Many, many thanks and kisses to EveryDayBella and PackyPie for their help and support.


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